


A Lot to Be

by BrosleCub12



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Cuddling, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-14
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-07-24 00:58:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7487118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrosleCub12/pseuds/BrosleCub12
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s a lot to be said for a sofa and a cuddle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Lot to Be

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written any sort of romance for a long time, but I do love Twelve and Clara. Written this afternoon when I was in a slump and needed something to cheer me up. No warnings; just a harmless one-off, doesn't have to be connected to my main series but can be if you want. Bit of cuddling, bit of flirting, bit of a dig towards certain films.  
> Kudos and constructive comments are most welcome. :)

*

‘Maybe it’s a Scottish thing,’ Clara suggests as she leans on him, gives a yawn. For his part, he’s not so sure; he glances at her, or rather at the top of her head, all too aware of the way his cheek is pressed against her hair, dark and soft and welcoming. It’s like ribbons, he thinks and then wonders when he got so sentimental.

‘Are you alright?’ he asks, at a loss of anything else to say and Clara grins a little, shifts so that her face is tucked into the space between his shoulder and neck. It makes him bite his lip, momentarily.

(It makes him lose his head).

‘I’m fine,’ she chides, the words gentle, a slight croak on her tongue and his hand drifts up to push some of her hair back before he stops. He’s not sure. This is all so. Well. This is new.

Clara solves the problem for him by reaching up and grabbing his hand, pulling it around her shoulders and tucking herself in even further to his side.

He shouldn’t be doing this. He knows he shouldn’t be doing this. He should be better than this; he should be the man who takes care of Clara like he assured her father he would, he should be a friend to Clara, an occasional (frequent) sparring partner. Not, well. Not _this._

‘Oi,’ Clara tugs at his hand, presses her arm against his shoulder; he eyes her, assuming his ‘Oh hello I wasn’t having an internal mental breakdown over this whole thing, now that would just be stupid, wouldn’t it, no really, I’m fine,’ face. She looks at him, and then grins; he grins back, a bit nervously (a little shy. It’s been a while). Clara laughs; she can see right through him, which is a frightening prospect and he clears his throat and lets himself continue to hold her.

‘I can hear you thinking from here, you know,’ Clara comments from when she’s leaning against his shoulder. ‘It’s not hard.’

‘I’m always thinking,’ he says, almost petulantly, because he always is and she knows that all too well; knows _him_ all too well.

‘I _know,’_ she says it with a cheekily raised eyebrow - there you go, point proven - leans up then, kisses his cheek and it takes him by surprise. Oh, hello. And then she reaches up with a hand, cups his face. He tries not to hold his breath, but it’s useless; Clara’s hands, which grasp pens and essays and novels, detention slips and bins, the disciple of a group of thirty children at a time, on his face. He wonders if it’s too much to think that they also hold his heart.

(Oh, what the hell, he’s there already).

He realises too late his eyes are closed to the touch, easy and softer than any hands should be – _oh, what kind of hand-cream do you use?_ he wants to ask in a conversational tone, should ask, but his tongue is completely letting him down. He can hear Clara giggling, hear the tremor of it as she rubs his cheek with his thumb. He’s a ridiculous old man and here she is, touching him with a tender palm.

‘Sorry it’s not Robert Downey Jr,’ he manages, means it as a quip as he gestures to his face when Clara moves her hand away, marking the end of the intimate moment (no other word for it; intimate is the one). The hand drops altogether and he opens his eyes, stares at the face staring at him. She looks shocked; hurt, even.

‘No,’ she says. ‘No.’ It’s one word, trails underneath, mixtures of _How dare you_ and _how could you_ and _don’t say that_. He bites his lip.

‘Well, it’s true,’ he ventures, and she reaches up, presses a long, tender kiss to his mouth. It takes him by surprise, but he doesn’t (can’t, or won’t) pull away. Clara is smiling, he can feel it and it’s so familiar, he knows in his mind’s eye exactly what it looks like, kind and slightly daring, swelling her cheeks with something optimistic.

‘Don’t,’ Clara murmurs against his mouth. ‘Please. Just. _Don’t.’_ She shakes her head and puts her hand back, rubs his cheek again, a silent plea. _Not this. Not here._

He can’t refuse her. He can’t do that and he nods, careful; takes the hand off his cheek and presses his own mouth to the knuckles, long and gentle and soft, he hopes. Then he lets her back in, lets Clara rest by his side once more.

‘Maybe it’s a human thing,’ he suggests, finally, to her earlier statement and then wonders about that. But then, that’s what they are; a grouchy Scottish human and his best friend, who now spends her time running around with him, trying to stop the rest of the population from murdering them whenever he inevitably offends someone or leaves a trail of catastrophe in his wake and although the hand-holding has always been a bit of a thing, recently it’s become. Well. _This,_ instead.

There’s a nuzzling into his collar; it makes him jump a mile, so unused is he to this, so long has it been. ‘Well, _I_ like it.’ He can practically feel the mischievous smirk there and doesn’t reply; just tips his head to the side, his silver temple to her forehead.

‘I’m glad,’ he manages; feels as though he’s got double the hearts all of a sudden, the way they’re thumping. The things that Clara Oswald could do to a man like him – it’s incredible. It should be unspeakable, but it’s not; Clara is here and her arms are around him, keeping his own around her in turn.

She presses a kiss against his cheek, long and soothing and yes, okay, loving and then dips her head, closes her eyes, a teacher who seems content with her lot in life, even if her lot contains him. The grouchy Scottish king – fine, Doctor of Physics – in a long dark coat, he muses over her head.

‘What do we do now?’ he asks. They seem to be here for the foreseeable; it’s worth checking what might be on the cards. There doesn’t seem to be any great desire to move, anyway. (He certainly has no complaints, if he’s brutally honest with himself). 

‘DVD?’ Clara suggests and he nods; seems like a plan and he’s rewarded with another kiss. ‘I’ll go pick something – the Hobbit?’ she checks, pushing herself up and he sits up as well, waving his hands around and determinedly ignoring the sudden disconcerting lack of a warm body on his left side (didn’t think the space she left would be this… significant, but he already knows it would be, far too much).

‘No, I’m not watching a film where the main character becomes an extra,’ he jabs a finger after her and her laughter over her shoulder on the way to the expansive shelf – a sound he likes to hear far too much and makes him wonder if this is the happiest she’s looked for some time or if he’s just imaging it, possible egoism on his part? ‘Get me something that doesn’t end up lying at the audience through its teeth,’ he adds quickly and she just laughs, _again._

It takes twenty-seven minutes to choose a film and in the ensuing debate a cushion or two is thrown, but they end up back where they began, his arm over her shoulder and her beneath his chin and sharing Galaxy Counters. Clara’s laughter at random intervals shakes her shoulders and his arm, leaves gentle tremors as she relaxes against him, completely at ease with her eyes on the screen.

No wonder that, by the time the credits roll, his head is resting on top of hers with no hesitance and their arms are linked, along with their hands.

*


End file.
